Years ago, before Gallery knew the name Baron as a commander, and long before he was hailed as the "Living Blade," he was just a young man filled with ambition.
It started with a choice.
He enlisted into the Imperial Armed Forces. Back then, his name was nothing special. Just another name on the roster of fresh recruits. But from the moment he stepped onto the training grounds, something about him stood out.
He was fast. Sharp. Reckless, but precise. And above all—he had talent with the sword.
Not one, but two.
His signature dual-wielding style quickly gained attention among drill sergeants and senior officers alike. He could disarm opponents in a blink, cut down targets in record time, and excel in urban and close-quarters simulations. Criminals, bandits, rogue fighters—he cut through them all like wind slicing through paper.
While other soldiers focused on tactics and team formations, he perfected his own rhythm. A dance of two blades, driven by instinct and arrogance.
And yet, despite his rapid rise, there was something else that stirred within him.
The newspapers.
Every time he got his hands on the latest issue, his eyes would dart to one name again and again—Black Death.
The stories of the legendary warrior were everywhere. The slayer of monsters. The ghost of battlefields. The Warrior who lead the Great Party and came back drenched in blood that was never his.
He admired him.
He envied him.
And eventually... he wanted him.
Not in admiration. Not in brotherhood. But in combat.
"One day, I'll stand before that man," he would whisper to himself while training. "And I'll make him acknowledge me. I'll make him block my blades."
And then the day came.
Several months later, he was summoned to his first major deployment—a large-scale military operation. He and hundreds of soldiers were tasked with protecting a classified research facility from an imminent threat.
The name of the threat hadn't been disclosed at first.
But when they arrived at the perimeter, command finally dropped the name.
"Black Death."
A chill had run through the camp like a phantom wind. Many soldiers turned pale. Some couldn't believe it. Others tried to run. But not him.
"He's here…"
That night, under the cover of rain and lightning, the assault began.
He could still remember the screams. The sound of magic colliding with steel. The way soldiers were sent flying with nothing but a single motion from a dark figure wrapped in a heavy black coat.
The Black Death.
He wasn't human. He couldn't be.
One by one, squads were wiped out. Traps failed. Mana fields shattered. Not even elite squads could delay him.
And then—his moment came.
He stepped forward, both blades drawn, the sound of battle fading behind him. Canis stood ahead, alone, his sword dripping with steam under the cold rain.
He raised his voice, trembling with adrenaline.
"Black Death! Fight me!"
But before a single word could be exchanged—
Canis lunged.
No hesitation. No theatrics. No recognition.
Just speed.
He barely had time to cross his swords. Steel rang out as Canis' blade crashed against both of his with a force that numbed his arms instantly.
"What—"
The impact launched him backward. Both his swords snapped in half like brittle wood. He hit the mud hard, breath knocked out of him, stars dancing across his vision.
By the time he looked up—Canis had already passed him. Not even sparing him a glance.
He wasn't an opponent.
He wasn't a threat.
He wasn't anything.
And that… was the first scar Baron ever received.
Not a physical wound. But a crack in his pride.
One that would shape the man he was to become.
{Chapter 61 End}